


Put Away Childish Things

by quodthey



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodthey/pseuds/quodthey
Summary: Clark has a birthday party. It's pretty great, until it isn't.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Hal Jordan, Hal Jordan & Bruce Wayne, Hal Jordan & Oliver Queen
Comments: 23
Kudos: 264





	Put Away Childish Things

It started, like many problems in his life, with him opening his mouth. 

“It’s someone’s birthday soon, right?” Hal asked as they sat in the Tower. “I have the feeling that it’s someone’s birthday soon, but man, I am really not great with Earth months anymore, so don’t even ask me who.” 

Ollie must have known though, because his head snapped toward Clark. His eyes narrowed slightly. “You thought you could get out of it, didn’t you?” he said. “You thought I’d forget!” 

“I didn’t think that, Ollie,” Clark laughed, “but you can’t blame a man for hoping, after last time.” 

Dinah grinned into her coffee. “You know what’s coming next, right?” 

Clark groaned theatrically and sank down into his seat. “Oh, no.” 

“Hey,” Ollie said, feigning offense, “I am great at parties. It’ll be fun, you’ll love it.” 

“I’m sure I will,” Clark said, with an honest smile. 

Which is how it came to be that several weeks later, Hal was sitting with a Coke in a Metropolis bar that had been bought out for the night with Oliver Queen’s money, watching Dinah and Diana work together to drag Bruce onto the dance floor for the Justice League’s general amusement. He thought that Bruce would probably let anything pass for the night, for the way Clark’s face lit up the whole room when he smiled. Even if he did it with a scowl on his face.

“Is anyone recording this?” he heard Hawkman ask. “Seriously, I think I need video evidence to remind me that Batman can dance.” 

He turned to him. “Don’t you have a phone?” 

Hawkman—Carter—grimaced. “Sometimes, yes.” 

“Sometimes?”

A heavy sigh. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve dropped the thing in the ocean. I think Arthur is going to feed it to me, one of these days.” 

Hal squinted at him. “I mean, to be fair, you do lose half your clothes when you fly. You probably lose a lot of stuff.” He knew that he had lost more than one phone to deep space, and at least one wallet. 

Carter laughed. “Too true,” he said. “But you try being the one to explain it to Aquaman.” From the other side, someone called Hawkman’s name, and Hal followed the sound to see Shayera gesturing at Carter, who raised a glass to him as he left.

He didn’t get long to sit alone, and a brief wind ruffled his hair as Barry flitted through the crowd to sit next to Hal. 

“Hal!” he said, overly loud. He leaned in close, and grinned widely as he put both hands on Hal’s shoulders. “How are you, my friend!” 

“I’m good,” Hal said smiling. “Not as good as you, I think.” 

Barry groaned, and let his head fall onto Hal’s shoulder as he moved closer. “Haaaaal,” he said. “Hal. Hal, my pal. I think I had, uh. I think I had too much. There was much. Too much.” He pulled himself back and tried to sit up straight. Barry’s normally tidy hair was messy and flopped over his face; he pushed it back and scowled lightly when, after turning his head almost faster than Hal could follow, it fell out of place again. 

“Watch yourself there, Barrence,” Hal grinned. “Yeah, I think you might have had one too many. Maybe some water. Here,” he said, offering his Coke. “I haven’t touched it yet. I’ll get another.” 

“S’fine,” said Barry. “I can. Um. I can—” and he vibrated suddenly for a moment. Hal was still holding his glass up to his friend when Barry stopped and grinned at him again. “Sober,” he said. 

Hal shook his head slowly, and took a long drink. “That’s so weird,” he said. “You ever think about how weird this all is?” 

“Oh, man. Like all the time. Sometimes, I am so jealous of Iris.” And they laughed for a moment about it: about the idea of being at Superman’s birthday drinks and being jealous of a reporter. Still giggling to himself, Barry said, “But, you!” and shoved Hal slightly. “How’ve you been? It feels like forever since you were back for longer than a couple of days.” 

Hal grimaced. “Yeah,” he said. He drank for a moment, and looked down into the glass, swirled it a little. “Yeah. There was a case I had to deal with.” 

Barry’s laughter died. “You alright?” 

And for a moment Hal thought about saying, No. Thought about saying, I found a dozen dead kids and another couple dozen who wished they were. Who might never stop wishing. Thought about saying, I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a nightmare. I think I’m learning what fear is. 

But he could hear Superman laugh, and he could hear the League actually having fun, having a night where they could just—could just be. So he took his thoughts and he put them away and he said, “Yeah, of course I am.” 

But he didn’t look up from his drink as he said it, so Barry nudged him. “Hey, you know you can talk to me,” he said. “I’m right here, buddy.” 

Hal smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Two hands hit the table with a bang and were peeled away with a sticky rip. “And it’s a party, Hal,” he said. “Have some fun. Let me get you a drink.” 

Another long drink and the now empty glass was held up. “Another Coke sounds good to me,” he said, but Barry scoffed. 

“Come on, let me get you a drink.” 

Hal swallowed. Shook his head. “I got an early flight,” he said. 

“I swear, you always have early flights.” 

Hal kicked his ankle gently. “Hey, take it up with Carol,” he said. “She’s the one bossing me around. You think I wouldn’t rather sleep in for once in my life?” 

And that, thank God, was the end of it. Barry shrugged, rolled his eyes, and said, “Alright, one Coke coming up.” 

And that should have been the end of it. He should have been able to have his Coke and sit there in his corner and relax. Nobody was firing lasers at him or trying to blow up the planet or kill every Lantern. It was good. It was calm. 

He could hear footsteps behind him, and Ollie’s chin dropped onto his shoulder. “Hal,” he said. He stank of alcohol and sweat and something sparkled in the corner of Hal’s eye, so he must have ended up with glitter smeared on his face, which meant that six months from now Hal was still going to find glitter on his shirt. “Hall-eo. My man. What are you doing in this corner all by yourself?” 

Hal laughed. “Not all of us are big dancers.” 

“Come on,” he said, dragging it out. And his hands dropped suddenly onto Hal’s hips, curling around his belly, and his weight was on Hal’s back, and his chin on his shoulder, and Hal knew what that felt like. Knew the heavy weight of it. He knew it, and he couldn’t not know it, and—

He didn’t remember throwing the punch. Didn’t remember twisting out of his hold, and punching his friend in the face and throwing him into the bar, but he must have, because the next thing he knew Ollie was on the floor and bleeding, and his hand hurt, and he didn’t remember throwing the punch, and his hand hurt but all he could really feel was that there wasn’t a weight on him anymore. 

“What the fuck,” Ollie wheezed. He pressed a hand to his face and winced, hissed in pain. “Jesus, Hal, what the fuck.” 

“I—,” Hal started, and stopped. “I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m—” 

He looked around and all he could see was a crowd: watching, waiting, in baffled silence, before Dinah pushed through to the front and went to Ollie’s side. She seemed to break the spell over them, because that terrible moment of silence was over and suddenly everyone was moving again. Clark wasn’t laughing anymore. He was looking at Ollie’s face carefully, checking how badly Hal had broken his friend’s nose, and glancing at Hal, and—

“I’m sorry,” he said again, backing away. “I don’t know—must have had too much to drink. It was an accident.” And he pushed through the crowd to get outside, but he still felt the stares of them choking him into silence. 

Even late at night, Metropolis in June was sticky and warm, but after the near scorching heat of an enclosed space with too many people, Hal quickly found himself chilled as he walked. He didn't know where he was walking. He just had to move. He had to get out of there, and he had to move, and if he kept moving it would keep him warm and it would get him away from Oliver’s broken face and Clark’s disappointment and Batman, and the League, and pretty much everyone left on Earth who knew him, seeing him for the fuck-up he was. 

It was just a wonder that it took so many of them so long. Maybe they should have listened to Batman sooner. 

“Fuck,” he said quietly to himself, twenty minutes later, when he was definitely, thoroughly lost. _“Fuck.”_ He kicked the wall, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t wearing his boots, and swore to himself again as his toes throbbed. 

“Hal,” came a voice from behind, which meant that he was beyond just being a regular fuck-up and was into being crazy territory, because the voice was Bruce’s. But Bruce wouldn’t follow him for twenty minutes, not even to yell at him. Bruce would just leave it for another day, letting Hal think that for once he was safe from a lecture. 

It was Bruce, though: his dark clothes and hair almost blended into the shadows, like he couldn’t bear to not wear black after being the Bat for so long. Idly, Hal tried to picture him in something bright. Cheerful. A yellow sweater. A pink shirt. He couldn’t do it. 

He sighed and leaned against the wall, turning his face to the brick. “What do you want, Spooky?” he asked. 

“To see if you’re alright.” 

Hal snorted. “I should remember to tell my doctor I’m hallucinating,” he said. “Pretty sure Bruce has a party to be enjoying.” But his stomach soured as he said it, and realised that not many people would be able to enjoy dancing after that scene. 

“I left a while after you,” he said. “Oliver will be fine.” 

“He send you to tell me that? I don’t think Ollie’s really going to want to talk to someone who broke his face because of a hug.” 

Bruce was silent for a moment. “I think people will surprise you,” he said eventually. It was—unbearably, terribly gentle, and for a second Hal was almost blinded with rage. He didn’t need kindness. He didn’t want it. Not for this. 

“Hal,” he said again. He sounded closer this time, but Hal still didn’t turn to look at him, found that he couldn’t. He didn’t want to see the look on his face. The pity. The idea of it turned his stomach so badly that he hoped desperately that he wouldn’t be sick on Bruce’s shoes. All he would vomit would be Coke and nuts, but it wouldn’t be pleasant to throw up on Batman. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Hal said automatically. “I’m great. I’ve got this.” 

Another silence. A long, awful pause. He wanted to say something to fill it, because he hated silence: space was full of it, and he didn’t want space when he had his feet on the ground. 

“Alright,” said Bruce. “Let’s go.” 

“Go?” 

“Do you think you will stop being lost any time soon?” 

“Oh, fuck you,” said Hal. “I’m not lost. I’m walking.” He was still leaning against the wall. 

“Hm,” said Bruce. “Well. I have a car. But please let me know if you would rather walk home.” 

What an absolute jackass. “Please let me know.” What the hell. But Hal peeled himself away from the wall and fell in beside him as he walked on. From the corner of his eye, he looked at Bruce under the streetlights. He frowned. 

“Why were you asking if I’m okay? Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Behind the smear of glitter on his cheek—it seemed he’d been attacked by it, too—he looked more run down than Hal had seen him. 

Bruce smiled grimly. “We all have bad days.” He didn’t elaborate. Hal didn’t ask. They all had bad days, but they all had secrets, too. 

There was silence again for a while, but then: “You said you had too much to drink.” 

Hal jerked his head to the side. “What?” 

“In the bar. You said you had too much to drink.” Bruce didn’t look at him as he led them to where he had parked, didn’t look at him as he unlocked his car. 

Hal didn’t say anything. A knot in his stomach had become a rock. A sinking dread that he knew what was coming. That he knew he couldn’t stop it. 

They all had secrets, sure. But over the years he’d noticed that Batman—that Bruce—had a thing about secrets. He fucking loved knowing them. Not doing anything with them. Just knowing them. Knowing the little things about you that you didn’t want anyone to know. That you didn’t want yourself to know. That you hated living with. 

The car he’d been led to was so nice that Hal hated it. It was sleek and shiny and looked fast, and he wanted it. And when he was buckled in, and Bruce had finished playing with the interface that definitely didn’t come with it, he finally looked at Hal and said, “You don’t drink,” with eyes that were so knowing that it made him wish for a second that he had broken Bruce’s nose instead of Ollie’s. 

“I have an early flight,” he said. 

“You always have early flights.” A split second, and then: “How long have you been sober?” 

“Hey, Bruce?” Hal said. “Do me a favour? Go fuck yourself.” 

He at least had the decency to look abashed. “I only mean that it’s a difficult thing. Sobriety. You must be sober for quite a while now.” 

Through numb lips, Hal forced out, “Ten years,” and Bruce nodded. 

“Congratulations,” he said, as if he meant it. Hal said nothing, and they drove in silence. 

But Hal apparently still was not free, because after fifteen minutes of silent driving, Bruce quietly said, “It wasn’t Ollie you hit, was it.” They didn’t look at each other. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hal said faintly. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you. I’m not talking about this.” 

And all Bruce said was, “Alright.” Still quiet. Still not looking at him. He kept driving. 

But it was in Hal’s head now. What it would be like, to tell Bruce. Someone who ferreted out secrets like it kept his world turning. Someone who already knew so many. Who already kept so many. Sometimes it felt like he looked at you and he could already see it all: could see you right down to your bones. The things you didn’t want to say to another person. The things you couldn’t. Like he understood it all. 

Hal only really knew one of Batman’s secrets, but it didn’t count. He didn’t think it was close to the real stuff. 

The rock in his stomach shifted to his throat. It wasn’t as if Bruce could respect him less. It wasn’t as if they were really friends. 

But he had come after him, into the night, to drive him home, after he had ruined Bruce’s best friend’s party. He’d come for Hal. To see if he was alright. He asked, because he wanted to know. 

And he already knew so much. 

Quietly—so quietly, so quietly he thought you’d need to be Superman to hear it—he said, “It wasn’t Oliver.” 

And Bruce nodded. Just nodded, didn’t say anything. Maybe this was what confession was like. A silent car, where you could say anything. Where you didn’t have to look at each other.

“I don’t even—,” he cut himself off. Turned to face the window. He thought he could see the reflection of Bruce’s profile in it. “I don’t even really remember it,” he said. 

“That’s not uncommon,” Bruce offered.

“Oh.” 

Another of their silences. But now the spell was broken and it wasn’t comfortable anymore and he was choking on things he had never said before. He tried to find the words, but he couldn’t, because he’d never really known them. Had tried not to know them. “It was a long time ago,” he said quietly. Like the time mattered. 

“That doesn’t mean it is easy. That it has to be.” 

Hal tried to breathe, but his throat must have been broken, because it didn’t seem to want to work. He couldn’t breathe beyond little hitches, little gasps of air, like he was choking on something, but he had nothing but this secret he had lived with for so long. Bruce pulled over, and put a hand on Hal’s shoulder, and that, for some reason, was what did it. 

“Sorry,” he managed through his gasps. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know. It was so long ago. Longer than ten years. I don’t even remember what he looked like. I don’t—” 

“Hal. Breathe with me,” said Bruce, and he inhaled, slow and deep. Hal tried, and failed, and tried again. He failed a few times before he managed to copy Bruce’s rhythmic breathing, and they sat there like that, just breathing. Slow, and steady. One breath at a time. Bruce’s hand had migrated from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and it rested there lightly, a reminder. Grounding him. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Bruce said, after a while. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But it might help.”

“Who am I supposed to talk to, Dinah?” he asked. “I just beat her husband. Not exactly her favourite person right now.” 

“You’re not the first person to want to hit Oliver Queen,” Bruce said. “Or the first to break his nose. But, no. I meant you can talk to me.” 

There was something in the way he said it, and the way he had said _That doesn’t mean it’s easy_ and _It might help_ that fit together like pieces of a jigsaw he’d never been able to finish before and the world clicked into a different shape and rearranged itself around this shared secret of theirs, in the fragile glass of the car’s privacy. “Oh,” Hal said. 

Bruce didn’t say anything. 

“Do you…?” 

“I’ve talked to people,” Bruce said gently. 

Hal’s throat clicked. “We didn’t talk about this shit when I was a kid,” he said, and there was a whole world in just that sentence. A lifetime. “I didn’t even know what had happened for a few years. And then I just—just put it away, and didn’t think about it. Didn’t talk about it.” 

Bruce nodded. His hand was still on Hal’s neck. His thumb rubbed a small circle in the small hairs there. 

“I was a kid, and I didn’t think about it, and then I wasn’t. And I still didn’t think about it.” His mouth worked silently for a moment before he added, just above a whisper. “I still don’t. I was just a dumb kid. I don’t know. Maybe I did something. Maybe I said something.” 

The thumb on the back of his neck stopped moving. “No. You were just a child,” said Bruce, steely. “You were a child and something terrible was done to you. Nobody said something, or did something. Nobody deserved it. You didn’t do something.” 

Something terrible. 

He’d never put it like that before. He’d never put it any way before. 

“You won’t say that again,” said Bruce, and Hal nodded, because he’d lost his tenuous grasp on his words again. He didn’t know what they were. 

He couldn’t stop saying that: I don’t know. I don’t know. It was so long ago, and his memories were so hazy, that he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything other than how sometimes he couldn’t bear to have even his best friend touch him, how sometimes he stood with his back pressed right against the wall and let people think it was a soldier thing, when that was only partly it. 

“I don’t even remember it,” he said. He thought he might have said it before, but he thought it bore repeating. “It’s just. Sometimes. Sometimes I’m there. But not.” 

Bruce nodded. “Ollie.” 

Hal sighed. “Yeah. Not that often. But yeah.” 

This time when he fell silent, he let his eyes fall closed too, and heaved a sigh. The hand on his neck finally stilled, grasped him tightly once, before being drawn away. “You know,” Bruce said, “I could really go for a burger right now.” 

Hal let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said, opening his eyes. “Yeah, a burger sounds good.” 

“Hn. Who said you were invited?” Bruce asked, a ghost of a smile around his mouth. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Hal said, and he was glad for it, because it hadn’t changed. 

“You better not have lost your wallet again.” 

“Are you serious right now? You’re a billionaire, you can afford two burgers.” 

“I have a family of seven,” said Bruce. “I need to be a billionaire.” 

It startled a laugh out of Hal, because somehow he forgot that Nightwing and Robin and all those others who turned up next to him weren’t just Batman’s sidekicks. He’d raised them. They’d lived in his house, done their best to eat him out of house and home, probably driven him halfway around the bend with the antics teenagers get up to combined with their superhero lives. It felt like another secret offered up: that he still counted them all as family, was probably the sort of father to carry photos in his wallet, and to brag about them. 

“Yeah?” Hal leaned back into his seat, looked over at Bruce. “Tell me about it?” 

He fell asleep listening to Bruce alternate between bragging about his children like Hal had expected and complaining about them using skills he had taught them to turn his hair grey, but when Bruce shook his shoulder slightly, all he said was, “I think I might be able to spring for your food, Jordan,” and walked with him to the diner.


End file.
